


The Universe In The Attic

by cycnus39



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, POV Mycroft Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-11 07:17:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1170229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cycnus39/pseuds/cycnus39
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Holmes brothers are diametrically opposed and yet entwined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Universe In The Attic

Even though the balance of probability did favour such a scenario eventually, he was slightly surprised to open his eyes to the half-light of his bedroom and find Sherlock sitting in the bergère by the side of his bed.

"I went to your office," Sherlock began, soft yet accusatory. "You haven't been running the country for at least two days."

"Yes, well," he sighed back with every ounce of the exhaustion he felt, "Downing Street does so enjoy stepping into the breach."

The clock in the hall chimed the hour and Sherlock frowned in its direction before meeting his gaze again.

"I was detained by the MOD."

"Then I suggest you either refrain from trespassing on military property or endeavour not to get caught."

"I didn't get caught." Sherlock sniffed disdainfully. "John did."

He raised an unimpressed eyebrow and Sherlock scowled at the bottles of pills on the bedside table.

"The beta-blockers made you put on weight so I can understand the shift to a centrally acting agonist, but a sympatholytic and an anticonvulsant?" Sherlock picked up the bottles of Convulex and Catapres. "Are your doctors on LSD?"

"Can't say I've asked."

"Then clearly you should." Sherlock put the bottles back on the table with a sneer. "Half of these so-called medical professionals can't tell one histone deacetylase inhibitor from another. Valproic acid--"

A rusty teaspoon.

Someone was digging his occipital lobe out the back of his skull with a rusty teaspoon and he couldn't think, couldn't see, couldn't breathe.

Then, sixteen thundering heartbeats later, the rusty teaspoon disappeared, the pain in his head settled back to its familiar throbbing torture and he became aware of Sherlock's fingertips stroking through his hair.

"Vascular spasms of just over a second," Sherlock muttered before sitting back down in the chair and steepling his fingers under his chin. "How regularly have these been occurring?"

He fought the urge to roll his eyes. "I have specialists, Sherlock, thank you."

"Specialists at what? Being incompetent?"

It would have been churlish to blame Sherlock for his sudden bout of vascular capriciousness, so he closed his eyes and took a calming breath before meeting Sherlock's demanding gaze again. "Don't you have a case to solve? A departmental body to annoy?"

"Not at this precise moment, no. Why didn't you tell me they came back?"

"They never went away."

Folding his hands over his stomach, Sherlock looked down at the third button of his shirt. "It took me years to realise your migraines weren't my fault."

"Yes, you were always such a self-absorbed child."

"Self-absorbed?" Sherlock glared. "You told me they were my fault, Mycroft! Mummy wouldn't even let me play in the house when you were ill."

"So you drowned my Cassius Dios in the frog pond."

"You said reading them gave you palsy."

"I said the same about Descartes."

"I liked Descartes."

"Of course you did. You were six."

Sherlock met his patronising smile with a sardonic one then closed his eyes and let his head fall onto the back of the chair. "Do you know an odious little creature called Dundas?"

"Several, actually. Did you have a particular one in mind?"

"Head of security at Broad Haven."

"Ah. Lieutenant Colonel George Alfred Malmesbury Dundas. Did you notice the polyneuropathy?"

"Of course. Diabetes?"

"Almost certainly."

"Well, dear George Alfred Malmesbury is having an affair with--"

"Two of his lieutenants simultaneously," he finished. Then, as Sherlock frowned over at him, continued, "The colonel also has a rather unfortunate gambling habit which has necessitated his third attempt at re-mortgaging his mother-in-law's house in Scotland."

Sherlock gave him an arch look. "Bit of a security risk for a head of security, don't you think?"

"He's retiring."

"And dear George the last to know."

"Isn't that always the way?"

"Well, I suggest whoever relays the news makes sure Dundas has emptied his bladder first otherwise his overflow incontinence may become an issue."

His gaze narrowed as he considered Sherlock's last deduction, but he wasn't going to challenge it, was taken off-guard when Sherlock suddenly leaned forward in the chair and growled, "No one's mind is infinite, Mycroft, not even yours."

"I'm sorry?" He blinked back.

"Presuming your mind is anything but finite is as ridiculous as presuming an attic doesn't have walls just because you can't see them in the dark."

"I'm not--"

"Things get damaged, Mycroft, debased."

Finally realising what Sherlock was palavering, he rolled his eyes and sighed, "Go home, Sherlock. I think you need to lie down."

"Pot meet kettle."

"I'm not listening to another word of this childish nonsense."

"Childish?"

"Positively infantile."

Sherlock sat back in the chair with an impatient scowl. "Well?"

"Well what?"

"You know what."

Of course he knew, but still waited four seconds before answering, "You look up at the night sky, little brother, and only count the stars when ninety-five percent of this ever expanding universe is darkness."

"An expanding universe?" Sherlock scoffed. "That's your theory?"

"Well, we can't all ignore the existence of particle physics, astrophysics and quantum mechanics now, can we?"

"I don't ignore them." Sherlock stood up and buttoned his jacket before picking some imaginary dust motes from his left sleeve. "I just don't have any use for them."

"You mean they don't fit in your attic."

Turning on his heel, Sherlock strode for the door. "Good evening, Mycroft. Keep taking the pills and your doctors may slip you some of their LSD next time."

"Serotonin, Sherlock," he called as Sherlock opened the bedroom door. "I have migraines thanks to unreliable serotonin not because I practice bad mental hygiene."

"Oh pay attention, Mycroft!" Sherlock snapped from the open doorway. "It's a matter of mass not sanitation."

 

 

End


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